Watcher
by Amelia-Williams-Pond
Summary: He always loved being out at night. (I wrote this with the main character as Dick Grayson, but really, it could be just about anyone. S'just a drabble. ONE-SHOT)


He had always loved being out at night. Even before patrols and the like. There was just something about it- the cool air, the almost-complete darkness. It made him feel like he was the only person in the world, even with traffic three streets over. And he loved the sky, too. What better time to see the sky then when it was full, not of planes and pollution and lost balloons, but with stars and moons and mysteries?

There wasn't a better feeling to him then sitting on the cold concrete at between nine at night and six in the morning, listening to the world and reveling in the loudness and the quietness of it. It didn't have to be concrete, either, but concrete was what felt the best. He most loved wearing sweats or pajama pants, a t-shirt or no shirt at all, and no shoes or socks.

Some nights he'd climb things, roofs and balconies and the like, and sit up high and _exist_, as quietly as he could even though he knew there was no need to be quiet. Other nights he'd sit on the porch or the concrete, or he'd walk barefooted through the grass to the road and stand there for a moment. There was something powerful about standing still in the night, silent, seeing everything when nearly nothing was awake to see him. Something that made him feel safe, somehow, like nothing could ever come after him.

It was ridiculous, he knew, but he loved it anyway.

His favorite thing to do was go out and watch the sun set, watch the darkness pour upon his surroundings, and maybe go back in for a bit. If he went back in, he would most certainly be back out later, when no one was there to see him, except maybe a neighbor a few houses down, who would pay him no mind other than a nod, or a cat that would come if he sat very still with his hands out toward it. Then, later, after maybe going in and back out again several times or not at all, he would be out to watch the sunrise. More than that, to watch the world wake up around him.

He loved that. Watching the world slip into sleep, and slowly rise out of it, all the while having checked in on it several times a night. His favorite color was that of the sky at night, between dusk and dawn. Any of those shades of blue were his favorite, depending on the mood he was in.

Even in the snow, he'd do it, but only if there wasn't snow on the ground, only falling. The rain, too, but he loved standing in the rain. His own personal cleansing, even more so than usual, a confession to the world, all of which was too busy or to tired to pay him any mind. Those silent confessions were where he did his best thinking, and he thought a lot. It kept him sane.

You see, he was an insomniac, without a doubt. Sleep didn't come easy to him, especially when he wasn't home. He would stay up as late as he wished, and by then, it was nearly dawn, and the light was just beginning to come 'round the horizon, and it was time to go watch, before friends and family woke up, dredging up the chaos that was life with them.

He sometimes went for days without sleeping. It used to be different- he'd stay up until he decided to sleep, and he'd sleep two or five hours, and he'd wake up and be fine for the world and all its problems. The watching changed that. It wasn't that he was afraid to miss something, exactly, and it wasn't that he was afraid to trust, but more that he wanted to spend as much of his time on Earth awake as he possibly could. Who would want to spent a third of their lives sleeping when they could have the serenity that his watching brought him?

Maybe, though he'd never admit it, it _was_ that he was afraid of missing something, that life would pass him by all because he was too weak to keep his eyes open a minuet longer. It probably also had to do with that he saw sleep, and the need to sleep, as a weakness, for some reason. Not being tired, that was okay, but the need to sleep, which was a basic function necessary for life, was a fault. A weakness. And there was no room for weakness in him.

There was something in the night air, in his watches, that kept him awake. It sucked the fatigue out of his body like marrow from a cracked bone, and he could've kept up forever like that. Forever and one more night. Watching. Existing. Repenting. Thinking.

It was the best thing there was, and he was one of the only people in the universe who knew it. He, and the other night-watchers, seeing what wasn't there to miss, according to those who didn't understand.

_Sometimes_, he reasoned, _the best things happen when nothing is supposed to be happening._ So why shouldn't he stay up and watch? He saw more shooting stars than all of his friends and colleagues combined. Befriending the small creatures of the universe was a natural-made habit now. And he knew the feel of concrete on bare feet after hours of shade, knew the feel, the taste, of the air on any day at any hour of the night. After all, how many people could say that? Who among them could honestly know the feel of moonlight on a new moon? Where were those who could describe what it's like to watch?

They were camouflaged in the crowds, visible only through the smallest of signs- the slightly darker bags under the eyes of some, the honest serenity backing the eyes of others. Black cat fur on the arm of a person without pets. A tenancy to watch. He always knew them when he saw them, those who went out for more than a late-night smoke or to calm a fussy baby.

They knew what no others knew, saw what no others saw. And they loved it- _he_ loved it.

Because there would always be time to sleep when he was dead. Until then, he would remain a watcher, remain awake, and he would know.


End file.
